Honestly: My Life and Stryper Revealed (3 page)

The business of entertainment was in my life from the start. I didn’t have to go searching for music. It came searching for me. It was a familiar part of my daily childhood. A normal weekend for me would be filled with babysitters while my parents were out performing at clubs.

My mom recalls that I used to rock back and forth, or as she calls it- “bop,” in whatever chair I was sitting in, keeping time to whatever music was being played around me at the time. I never did really shake the habit. Still to this day, when I hear music I have to move some part of my body. My feet. My hands. My head. I probably drive people crazy with my inability to sit still when music is playing, and perhaps that’s why I gravitated towards guitar as a way to channel and release my nervous energy.

My first memory of learning to play guitar was at the age of five when my dad began teaching me some basic chords on a Gibson 12-string acoustic. What kid learns to play guitar on a Jumbo 12-string acoustic? I did! Looking back on that, I’m amazed that my little fingers could manage such a task, but it’s quite possibly the very thing that helped me to progress at such a fast pace.

By the time I was 10, I was a session player on my dad’s country demos, where Robert, 13 at the time, played drums. Truthfully, my dad could have gotten the best players in the business to perform on those sessions, but he lovingly and patiently gave my brother and me a shot. That’s my dad—very family minded and always willing to encourage us in all our interests. He believed in us and I’m forever thankful that he gave Robert and me an opportunity to record at such an early age.

The studio was always filled with seasoned pros and being around those guys was a real inspiration. Of course, at the time I didn’t realize the magnitude of the influence they were having on me, but I learned so much from being a part of those sessions—watching the other musician’s play and picking up everything I could from anyone who would take the time to teach me something new.

One player in particular that I remember was an incredibly well known country/blues player by the name of Lou Martin. Lou would give me tips and pointers when we were between takes or waiting for set-up. I tried to absorb everything I could from Lou. He was probably one of my earliest influences as a guitar player aside from Chuck Berry and John Fogerty. Looking back, I’ve often wondered if this was a strategic plan on the part of my dad to surround me with amazing musicians at such a young age. Planned or not, it certainly inspired my love for music and for playing guitar.

My parents were as encouraging and supportive as anyone could be throughout my childhood and my years as a growing musician. Whereas a garage for most Dads is typically sacred space for working on cars, collecting tools, or storing cold beer, my dad always gave up his “man cave” and let us turn every garage of every home into a rehearsal space.

When I was in the third grade, Robert and I entered a talent show at our elementary school. We played two instrumental songs, “Honky Tonk” by Bill Doggett and “Walk, Don’t Run”, a song first recorded by jazz great Johnny Smith, but made famous in 1960 by The Ventures.

We won 1
^st
place! I played bass and Rob of course played drums. Despite the fact that the bass guitar was three times my size, and we looked like The Partridge Family in some fairly ridiculous outfits, it was our first taste of feeling the energy of a crowd from a stage. I liked it. It was just a third grade talent show, but to me, we may as well have been in a stadium playing for thousands of screaming fans.

From that moment on, there was never any doubt that this is what I wanted to do with my life. And what’s amazing to me is that I still love doing what I do as much as I did that day in elementary school with my oversized bass and Keith Partridge shirt.

Prior to winning the talent show, I was a short, skinny kid with a bowl cut. Almost overnight I became a cool kid. Music has always had a way of lending a helping hand to my personal life along the way.

We moved a lot when I was young. I went to three different elementary schools, one junior high school, and four high schools. So naturally it was tough to fit in everywhere and I found myself constantly trying to make new friends. But the one thing that saved me was music.

Still though, I didn’t quite dive into music with the same passion as my brother. Robert was married to music, I was just flirting with it.

THREE

It’s ironic that the preacher who would eventually speak out boldly against Stryper was the same one who first led me to Christ—Jimmy Swaggart.

I was twelve years old when I first said the sinner’s prayer. The sinner’s prayer is basically the admission to God that you are a sinner, and a petition asking for forgiveness along with an eagerness to accept Christ into your heart with the acknowledgement that He is the only way to heaven.

In 1975, most families would gather around the TV set to watch Lawrence Welk, Hee Haw, or maybe an episode of Lassie, but not us. We were regularly watching Jimmy Swaggart flailing his arms about and sweating profusely. Jimmy Swaggart was the epitome of the TV evangelist. Threats of hell and damnation coupled with tearful outbursts of redemption blended with a lot of singing.

Swaggart’s charisma drew our family in, particularly me as an impressionable young kid. I was too young to be skeptical of televangelists. Getting older and playing in Stryper would eventually change all of that—but for now, as a kid, I just thought it was cool to see all the energy and theatrics, not to mention the music and the message.

Our TV was an old RCA cabinet model—one of the hybrids that was a TV and a cheap piece of furniture all in one. It held precious space in our living room as though it were a member of the family—and those times when Jimmy Swaggart was on, it
was
a member of the family.

Like most televangelists, Jimmy would give an altar call at the end of his sermon. He usually cried during this part of the show. If he didn’t, the audience most certainly did. One day, our entire family held hands right there in our living room, and we all unanimously accepted Christ into our lives. We gave God the rightful and prominent place in our hearts.

Not long after that, we went out and found a local First Southern Baptist Church and we started attending regularly. We even got involved with the worship team. But it didn’t stick, not with Rob and me anyway.

We had dreams of rock stardom to pursue and our mission to “make it” involved a lifestyle that didn’t seem to mesh too well with early morning church services. As Jesus teaches us in Luke, “He who is forgiven much, loves much.” I can testify that I threw myself into the business of having much to be forgiven. It’s ironic given my ultimate career as a Christian musician that I initially saw church as an obstacle to my goals instead of a counterpart.

Rob’s passion for becoming a successful musician was more deeply rooted than mine. Although my days as a third grade talent show superstar planted the musical seed, I wasn’t quite ready to be in a serious relationship with music. Rob and I began to slowly spend less and less time together. As he became more and more serious about music, I became more and more serious about being a punk brother.

When Robert and his band mates practiced in the garage, they would often light candles. Once when they weren’t around, my best friend and partner in crime, Greg Rahmeyer, and I went into the garage, lit the candles and melted wax all over their equipment. The wax hardened and sealed the knobs.

I’m surprised Rob and his band mates didn’t give us a beat down. I was a real punk. Although I was running around getting into lots of neighborhood trouble, I still knew I wanted to play music. I just wasn’t quite ready to make it a career.

Robert however was nose-to-the-grindstone serious about music. But there was only one problem. He couldn’t find and/or keep, a good singer.

FOUR

Years earlier, when I was around 6 or 7, Rob, Lisa and I would stay with our grandparents one, two and sometimes three nights a week while my parents performed at local bars or clubs. My grandparent’s names were Maxine and Melvin, but we called them Nana and Popo. Nana is one who should be equally credited for giving me the foundation to eventually become a professional musician.

She came from a family of 12 kids, the Lamb family of Oklahoma. When we would visit, there was always music in the air. She was a singer and a songwriter and she even played a little guitar. Music was the centerpiece of our visits. Nana would sit around the living room playing guitar and singing. Her voice relaxed me as she would teach us country, classic rock and even traditional hymns. Every visit turned into a jam session.

“
Michael, I’ll give you a quarter if you’ll sing.” she’d say, knowing I would be reluctant and shy—and I always was.

Rob was never hesitant to join in. He’d bring out pots and pans and bang on them with wooden spoons. It took a little more coaxing to convince me. Sometimes when I wouldn’t sing, Nana would raise the stakes, saying in her thick southern accent
“
Okay, 50 cents? Sing for us, Michael. Come on now!” Sometimes if the money wouldn’t work, she’d bribe me with food by telling me she’d make a cake or Popo would make some ice cream. Nana was a great cook and Popo made the absolute best homemade banana ice cream. That always worked, even if the pay didn’t.

I was, and still am, a very shy person. Singing in public, or doing anything in public, never came naturally for me. It was something I learned, largely from my Nana. When I would begrudgingly join in singing, she would go on and on about it.
“
Oh Michael. My God, You’re so good.” Even at a young age I knew that was something grandmothers were just supposed to say to their grandkids, whether they were actually good or not. But as other people would hear me sing around the house, I would receive similar comments and compliments and as a result I began to gain a little more confidence.

I wouldn’t say that I ever overcame being shy, but I did start to become more comfortable singing to an audience. So eventually, over time, I’d join in with no coaxing at all.

Nana gave me my first electric guitar and gave Rob his first drum kit. She and Popo took Robert down to the local K-Mart and bought him a set. I remember seeing it for the first time and watching him pound away on that kit and I thought to myself, now this is cool.

Nana really helped to bring me out of my shell and always went the distance to encourage Rob and me in our love of music.

Later in life, as Rob was going through different singers for his band, my dad would always say to him
“You should audition Mike. He’s a good singer.”
Rob would brush it off and proceed to audition another round of local guys for whatever band he had going at the time. This was fine by me. I was 12 and really had no interest in being in a band. There was trouble to be made and gotten into, and I had mischief to find with neighborhood friends. A band felt like work to me and I wasn’t ready for that.

After going through several singers that didn’t work out, Rob finally caved and agreed to give me an audition. It was not a big deal to me. After all, it was my brother’s band, and I had heard them practicing and rehearsing dozens and dozens of times. My neighborhood friends were likely unavailable on the day I auditioned, so I was probably just thinking
“
What the heck. There’s nothing else to do today. I guess I could give this band thing a try.”

But to my Dad, it was a much bigger deal. He had been suggesting to Robert for months, if not years, that he give me a try as the singer. So when Rob finally did agree to give me a shot, my Dad was obviously happy about it. He must have known something good would come out of this. To celebrate the occasion, Dad bought a Shure Vocal Master PA System, one of the most iconic PA systems in music history. It was one of the first portable sound systems, complete with a half-ton mixer/power amp and two speaker columns that were six feet tall. As long as I had a roadie, this hundred pound stick kid was set. Although I couldn’t even lift the thing, it was the coolest system I could have at that time.

The audition took place in the garage of our house in Whittier, on Chatfield Street. We set up the PA and were just as excited about hearing it as we were about playing. Larry Richardson was the guitarist, Rob was the drummer, Dean Cerny was the bassist, and I played guitar and sang. We played mostly cover tunes by Hendrix, Bowie, Aerosmith and whatever else we knew. Occasionally we would break into a free-for-all jam—a slightly awkward attempt at creating our own music, I suppose. But mostly we covered rock classics that day. We played for about an hour or so.

When it was over there was no ceremonious joining of the band. There were no papers to be signed stating my new title as lead singer. Basically Rob looked at me when it was over and said, “Well, that sounded pretty good, I guess.”

From that day on, Rob would be in my life musically and professionally and I would be in his to the same degree.

Following the audition, we lined up a grandiose tour of backyard parties and VFW halls. We would play for anyone with a yard big enough. We’d bang out a couple sets of covers and a few originals thrown in as well. We’d play anywhere and everywhere.

Once, someone wanted us to play a backyard party under the condition that we’d mow the lawn. The yard was big and it looked like it hadn’t been mowed in months, but we mowed it. Just to get a backyard gig we brought out a couple of mowers and took turns cutting the grass—all in the name of rock.

Gigs were fun then. They were small-time stuff, but they meant the world to us. Weeks of planning would go into each one of our shows. We’d carefully construct a set-list, print flyers to help advertise, and we’d spend days picking out the perfect stage wear. We’d set up in the corner of a backyard somewhere with the Shure PA system in front of our instruments. If the backyard had a concrete patio we’d use that, but more often than not, we set up right in the middle of the lawn.

We did our best to make sure each show was a success. There were no aspirations of stardom or recording contracts. Our biggest concern then was how we would sound and how many people would show up. If we made $100 and could buy pizza, guitar strings and drum sticks, we were happy.